The Tongue of Our Parents
by ncfan
Summary: The shift from Quenya to Sindarin among the Noldor was not always a welcome one, even before the Ban. Or: Whatever the Age, Celebrimbor finds his relationships with others marked by miscommunication and sometimes a lack of it altogether.


I own nothing.

* * *

Many of the Noldor had adopted Mithrim Sindarin for ease of communication with their allies. The Mithrim were also making strives to learn Quenya; it seemed only fair for the Noldor to make an equivalent gesture.

Celebrimbor knew that his father had been learning to speak the Mithrim's tongue since long before the majority of the Noldor began to do so. His father was very interested in languages, the same as Grandfather and Uncle Maglor. Himself, Celebrimbor was still a little child, and had no use for languages beyond the two he used in daily speech.

In the empty east of Beleriand, where the Sons of Fëanor were building their fortresses and watchtowers, Celebrimbor did not have quite the same freedom of other children. Where the other children here spent most of their childhoods roaming the countryside or learning their parents' trades, Celebrimbor had lessons. Every day of the week it was something, whether it be arithmetic or letters or history or science or following Curufin into the forge and watching his father at his work. Celebrimbor was told that when he was older, he would learn to handle weapons as well.

His father handled all of his lessons, somehow finding time to teach Celebrimbor in between the time spent governing the host alongside Uncle Celegorm and the time he spent in the forges with the other smiths. They would sit in the tent Curufin and Celebrimbor shared, while outside stonemasons and builders slowly put their new home together. It always amazed Celebrimbor, how utterly his father could ignore the noise outside. Curufin was far more single-minded than his son, who found himself easily distracted by the racket.

Celebrimbor liked to learn. His father always talked about how important it was that he learn as much of what he would have been taught in Aman as it was possible for him to learn. Celebrimbor didn't want to disappoint his father, and at times he felt like he lived for the rare moments of praise he received when he did something that could impress even Curufin. It was hard work, though. Uncle Celegorm often joked that Curufin seemed unsure of just how old his son was, to be teaching him all that he was and to be holding him to such high standards (It probably meant something that Uncle Celegorm coddled his nephew and let him ride on Huan's back whenever he wanted). Curufin was adamant in his belief that Celebrimbor could handle it, and adamant that Celebrimbor begin learning everything he could as soon as he could.

Storytelling was a welcome respite from lessons. Storytelling was kind of like history, except there weren't any tests later and Curufin didn't expect Celebrimbor to remember everything later; he seemed to derive enjoyment from telling certain stories over and over again. They would sit on the grass outside of the tent they shared, Celebrimbor leaning into his father's side and Curufin wrapping his arm around his son's shoulders. The welcome warmth of Anor's light (for it was always rather chilly in their new home, even in the summertime) washed over them both.

From his father, Celebrimbor heard tell of his family and of his home. Cousins who lived elsewhere in Beleriand, the mother and grandparents he barely remembered, the great-grandfather who existed even more vaguely in his memories, and everyone else.

Perhaps Curufin was not the best storyteller in the world. When the seven brothers congregated, it was Uncle Maglor or the Ambarussa who handled any storytelling that was passed between them. In front of greater audiences, it was Uncle Maglor or a nís in Uncle Maedhros's host. In front of Curufin and Uncle Celegorm's host, bards and minstrels recounted the old tales.

Celebrimbor had never seen his father tell stories to anyone else. He asked him about it, once.

"_No, I've not the temperament for that. It is certain uncles of yours who thirst for the attention of a large audience, not I. But I am telling you all of this because you need to hear it, Telperinquar. You need to know about our family."_

"And your mother said to me, 'Well, if you wish for that particular color, you should ask the dye-maker, not me. He will have a better idea of how to help you.' It was an old argument of ours; in fact, this was the first conversation we ever had. I said to her—What is it, Telpe?"

Sitting beside his father, Celebrimbor squirmed a little, looking away from him. "Umm… You're going too fast," he mumbled reluctantly. Celebrimbor didn't like to admit to this. He might have been a little child, but he had his pride, and being a good listener was part of what he prided himself in.

Celebrimbor heard rather than saw his father's uncertainty. "What do you mean?" Curufin asked, a noticeable dubious tone in his voice.

There would be no getting out of this one, it seemed. Celebrimbor's face burned with embarrassment as he elaborated. "I can't understand you very well when you talk this fast," he explained. "I can understand you better when you speak in Sindarin."

Curufin stiffened, and Celebrimbor looked up at him anxiously. He did not meet his father's gaze when he did so; Curufin was not looking at him. Instead, Curufin stared out over the hills with an expression in his pale eyes that Celebrimbor didn't recognize, glassy and far-away. "Go somewhere else, Telpe," he said too-quietly.

"Father?"

"Just… Just go somewhere else." Curufin's voice bore a ragged edge, and Celebrimbor shrank back automatically. He watched as his father's face screwed up, as he squeezed his eyes shut, as his mouth formed a jagged line like the blade of an old knife. "Go play, go pester your uncle, just go somewhere else." He rose to his feet and went back inside of their tent. "I need to be alone," Celebrimbor heard him say.

And for the rest of the day, Celebrimbor did stay away from his father's tent. Uncle Celegorm didn't try for very long to get an explanation out of his troubled-looking nephew. Instead, he let Celebrimbor trail after him as the day wore on, saying nothing to him but occasionally reaching over to pat his shoulder or stroke his hair. It was much the same as the way Uncle Celegorm treated Huan when the great hound was disquieted; Celebrimbor didn't know whether to be comforted or put off by the tone of these gestures.

In the evening, as Anor was sinking down past the horizon, Uncle Celegorm walked Celebrimbor back to his tent. Inside, they found Curufin. He was sitting at his desk, his elbows propped up on the desk's surface. One hand was laid atop the other; the backs of his hands were pressed against his mouth. Celebrimbor stared, shocked, at his puffy eyes, his wet cheeks.

"Telpe?" Uncle Celegorm's voice was too bright and too cheerful, just as it always was when he was nervous or worried (Or more often, both). "I think it would be better if you came and slept in my tent tonight. Why don't you go back there with Huan? Your father and I have some things we need to talk about."

-0-0-0-

"He grew very strange about my Quenya lessons after that. The time for my Sindarin lessons was cut in half and Quenya was doubled; Father insisted that I use Quenya in my daily speech, even when I had difficulty or when we were among the Sindar."

Celebrimbor was not sure why Galadriel had asked him about his experience with languages. He was not sure why she had asked him about the way his father taught him, when he was a boy. An evening spent by the shores of the Nenuial hardly seemed like the venue for such a conversation. Frankly, after a long day in the forges, Celebrimbor had been hoping to _avoid_ such a talk.

The sky was streaked purple and pink in amongst the blue. A few stars twinkled high above in the firmament. Celebrimbor felt, rather than saw, the presence of Gil-Estel in amongst them. That star's progress across the sky, he never tracked. The memory of his people was a long one, and his no shorter.

Celebrían and many others of the settlement were taking advantage of the mild weather and the cool waters of the lake. Celeborn was not there; he had gone east over the mountains to visit Oropher, Duileth and Thranduil in Amon Lanc. Celebrían was old enough to find her way home by herself, and frankly Celebrimbor was tired, but Galadriel had asked him to speak with her, and when Celebrían began to walk down the path towards the lake, Galadriel motioned for him to follow. Now, they sat on the shore watching Celebrían as she swam in the lake, her shrieks of laughter seeming very far away.

He hadn't expected her to start asking about his family. He had hoped she wouldn't. But this seemed harmless enough a topic, and Celebrimbor knew that he could trust his cousin not to share any secrets he might reveal. He would not be like his kin, suspicious and engendering suspicion. He would not be like them.

"I imagine he was unhappy when Thingol issued the Ban on Quenya." Galadriel was looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. It wasn't the same kind of unreadable expression Curufin had so often worn; Celebrimbor wondered if he just couldn't interpret it because of the faint light. Her expression was more thoughtful than calculating, more neutral than watchful. For the comparison, Celebrimbor wasn't sure if he was remembering Curufin the way he had been in Himlad or in Nargothrond. Sometimes it bothered him, the fact that he couldn't separate the two.

Celebrimbor snorted. "Galadriel, I don't know anyone who _was_ happy when Thingol leveled the Ban. There was a lot of shouting done in Himlad the day we found out about it." And a lot of shouting was done later in Himring when the House of Fëanor congregated, before the silence set in, the deep, uneasy silence, while Celebrimbor's uncles and his aunt considered their new reality.

Galadriel smirked humorlessly. "Fair enough. But I was curious about your father's reaction, in particular."

"Why?" When Galadriel looked at him uncomprehendingly, Celebrimbor (only a little tensely) pressed on, "You've never expressed much curiosity in my father's view on things before, cousin."

This earned Celebrimbor a raised eyebrow and that look Galadriel sometimes gave Celebrían down the bridge of her nose. Celebrimbor knew when he was being chastised, and despite himself, it made him feel like a child who had said something inappropriate. "That does not mean I can not, Telpe," she said simply. Celebrimbor would have asked further, but there was a note of finality in her voice that no one could have missed.

Celebrimbor told himself that it wouldn't hurt anything to confide in her. He told himself that he trusted Galadriel, that he _ought_ to be able to trust Galadriel with this. He told himself that it might even feel good to talk about his family with her. "Father was… Curufin was… Well, he was very unhappy with it. Probably the least happy of all of our house, though Aunt Ilmanis would be running a close second.

"I know that the Ban was never really abided by in Gondolin; I know that Turgon didn't really follow it in Nevrast, either. But I also know that Maedhros was the same as Fingolfin and Finrod. He felt that it would be better if we went along with Thingol's edicts. He was angriest with the House of Fëanor, after all."

Almost automatically, Celebrimbor's hand strayed to the clasp that held his tunic shut; he ran his fingers over the eight points of the star. Celebrimbor remembered how he had taken this clasp off after Nargothrond, and had never really put it back on again until after he came here with Galadriel and Celeborn. He wasn't sure why he had put it back on.

"Father wasn't much better about following the Ban than Turgon was; if anything, he was worse. He still used Quenya in his daily speech, insisted that I use it as well. Maedhros used to send these irate letters; apparently some of the Sindar who followed the Ban were going to Himring to complain." Celebrimbor twisted a stalk of long grass in his hand. "I… I never understood it, really," he admitted, looking away from Galadriel. "I've spoken Sindarin for as long as I can remember. I never understood why it upset him so."

Galadriel stared out on the lake. Celebrían's silver hair flashed in the starlight, even as waterlogged as it was. She stared at her daughter, and suddenly she seemed steeped in some vague sense of melancholy, like the way the air grew heavy and charged before a rainstorm. "I understand Curufin perfectly."

"Really?"

She looked at him with a lightly chiding stare in her piercing green eyes. "Just because I never have before, does not mean I can not, Telperinquar." Somehow, Celebrimbor didn't feel quite as much like a naughty child now as he had when she said it the first time.

Her tone had been mocking, but the pensive look on Galadriel's face remained, and she turned her gaze back out to the lake. She seemed to shrink, preposterous as it was. Celebrimbor had never known her to… Well, no. That wasn't quite right. He had seen this side of Galadriel sometimes, reminiscent and existing in a state that wasn't quite wistful, but more often than not held more than the bare hints of bitterness. But Celebrimbor got the impression that she tried to shield him from it, much the way she tried to shield Celebrían from it, and she did such a good job that it was easy to forget that she could be like this, even when she wore the jewel had made for her, with the workings he had learned from Enerdhil and Finrod in the ways of memory.

Celebrimbor felt no more comfortable with Galadriel's long, preoccupied silences than he had been with his father's. There was sadness in Galadriel where there had been slow-burning anger in Curufin. He was drawn to give her comfort, rather than shy away. "Galadriel?" He got no response. Celebrimbor reached out and laid a hand on her bare arm. "Artanis?" he asked, using the name he had not called his cousin by since the majority of the Noldor had left Lake Mithrim in the early years of the First Age.

She started as though struck, and stared at him, amazed. After a moment, Galadriel smiled. It was a sad, gentle smile, sadder and gentler than he usually saw her. Galadriel rested her hand on his cheek, still smiling, and Celebrimbor smiled back tentatively, his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn't quite sure what it was about saying her Quenya name that had evoked such a reaction.

But then, she drew back, pushing his hand away from her arm. Galadriel stood, shucked her shoes, and waded out into the lake after Celebrían, her long, gold-silver hair fanning out in the water like the tail of a peacock.

Celebrían laughed and beamed when she saw her mother swimming towards her. The half-grown girl waved to Celebrimbor, calling for him to join them, but Celebrimbor shook his head and smiled apologetically. He couldn't find it in himself to join him.

Instead, he found himself preoccupied with a singular memory.

That night in Himlad, when all was dark and quiet and Ithil was obscured by a heavy bank of clouds, someone had slipped into Celegorm's tent. Celegorm slept through it, but Celebrimbor and Huan both woke up. Huan had lifted his head from his paws, but when he simply lied back down again, Celebrimbor knew it could not be anyone who meant to harm them.

And indeed it was not. Celebrimbor had let out a muffled squeak as his father laid down beside him on his pallet on the ground. "It's alright," Curufin had murmured in Quenya, his voice raw and yet oddly soft. "Go back to sleep." He had stroked the boy's hair and pulled him close to his chest as he had not done since they had lived in Mithrim and Celebrimbor was plagued with nightmares of Orcs and his grandfather's fiery death.

When Celebrimbor thought about it, he probably should have asked. There were a lot of things he probably should have asked.

* * *

Telperinquar, Telpe—Celebrimbor  
Artanis—Galadriel

Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun  
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)  
Gil-Estel—"Star of High Hope"; the Silmaril, as worn by Eärendil as he pilots Vingilot across the sky  
Amon Lanc—'Naked Hill'; Oropher's capital in the Greenwood until the Third Age, when Thranduil abandoned it and relocated to the north  
Ithil—the Sindarin name for the Moon


End file.
